


Delicate Edge

by taranoire



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Dark, Gen, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Relationship Discussions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 22:42:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2405567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/taranoire/pseuds/taranoire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It bothers Hawke that there are elements of Fenris and Orana that he will never know or understand."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicate Edge

**Author's Note:**

> "It bothers Hawke that there are elements of Fenris and Orana that he will never know or understand." Relationship-centric fic focusing on Hawke, Fenris, and Orana, with (possible) future parts, but it works as a standalone. I hope. Hawke/Fenris, obvs, because why would I write anything else? 
> 
> Warnings: Discussion & mention of rape, slavery, etc., which is why I've rated it "Mature." Hawke being ignorant, but trying to learn. Dark themes.

True to his word, Hawke is kind to Orana. And while Fenris cautions him not to smother her with his compassion (“She will only be suspicious of your intentions, and become ever more withdrawn and distrustful”) he extends many courtesies and privileges that would never be granted to a slave, let alone one of the Imperium.

He ensures she has a full coin purse by the end of each week, but not so much that she will spend it unwisely; he gives her a small room away from the noise of the streets that she may decorate however she wishes; he gives her tasks that are simple and agreeable, such as light housework and cooking—things that need to be done, things she should well be paid for, but that will not cause her undue stress.

On her naming day, he and mother accompany Orana so the girl might purchase a gift for herself. The intention is to allow her to begin making spending decisions on her own, without Bodhan’s guidance and his mother’s raised eyebrows (“have you seen the make-up that darling girl slathers herself with?”). He and mother are both surprised when Orana forgoes jewelry or silk stockings or other such luxuries in lieu of a small, purring orange kitten.

Hawke cannot help but smile at her shock when he tells her she must give it a name.

“I may choose the name?” she asks, wide-eyed, clutching the animal to her chest.

Hawke would laugh, but he feels that would be patronizing. “She is your responsibility now, and it is your coin you spent. Name her whatever pleases you.”

The kitten, now called Orien, spends her days curled up on Orana’s bed or sneaking soft-pawed into the kitchen for scraps the girl slips her.

*

Fenris has not allowed Hawke to touch him intimately since that first night, and the mage not only understands but takes great pains to avoid touching him altogether. Guilt festers beneath his skin like poison, like too much lyrium potion, itchy and uncomfortable. You had no right to inflict your lusts on him, he berates himself; you had no authority to press him against the wall, down against the bed, beneath you, no matter how hot his mouth was or how much he seemed to want it.

On a purely reasonable level, he understands that Fenris’ reasons for discontinuing that aspect of their relationship are more complicated than a simple fear of intimacy. Most of it was the flood of memories that, like a typhoon, swept through Fenris’ mind before swiftly disappearing. And yet, this is inconsequential, because he cannot explain away his own irresponsibility by pinning the blame on Fenris’ ghosts or worse Fenris himself.

So for now, they enjoy one another’s company in far more innocuous ways. His desire for the elf is not just carnal, not just skin-deep. He enjoys being close to him. His smile, the way he carries himself, the calm veneer, the brilliant sharpness of his mind—he wants to watch it all, drink him in, consume him, and in return show him what love means. He does love him. And that is very, very dangerous.

They sit by the hearth in the library, most evenings; Fenris is usually sprawled in a chair in an uncivilized manner, his fingers to his chin as he glares daggers at whatever book he is attempting to wade through.

Orana brings them tea, and occasionally treats (Hawke loves her biscuits; buttery and crumbly and sometimes with pieces of candy or chocolate hidden inside). Occasionally, when the mood is right, Hawke will invite her to sit beside them. Fenris does not mind sharing his reading lessons with the girl. In fact, he is rather more relaxed when she is in the room, less conscious of his mistakes and even giving her advice on hurtles he has already overcome.

“The common tongue is a barbaric mess as written,” he says on one occasion when she does not understand why some words are pronounced one way and not another, struggling particularly with the ch- prefix. “Be patient with yourself.”

*

Sometimes, Hawke gets the sense that Orana is frightened of him, even though he has shown her no ill will. He meets this skittishness with patience, when he can, allowing his mother to talk to her with her softer voice and sweeter disposition.

When he cannot—when Fenris is showing him the same careful suspicion, when Fenris shies away even from his most innocent of touches—he seals himself apart from her, so that there is no chance he may snap and demand to know what is wrong what his mere existence.

*

At first, Fenris greets Orana with a nod of acknowledgement whenever he comes to call. As time progresses, the interactions deepen, become more complex. He asks Orana if she is settling in. He kneels down to carefully scratch her kitten behind its soft orange ears. He notices that she does not look well, and gives Hawke a reproachful look, subtly suggesting with his eyes that perhaps the girl should not be doing busywork while ill.

On one afternoon, Orana accidentally stumbles into Fenris on the staircase, dropping the basket of laundry in her slender arms. She mumbles an instinctive, terrified apology in what Hawke assumes is Tevine.

Fenris, with the same amount of conditioning and not much thought, immediately drops to help her clean up the mess. The words that spill from him are not in the common tongue, either. “Gratias agam, ego sum stultus. Utrum mundus?”

Orana seems somewhat stunned that Fenris is not beating her. In her fear, she gives a nervous laugh. “Ah, hoc est magna sporta. Quia gravis mihi est…”

“Hoc est officium. Benefaris.”

“G-gratias agimus tibi..”

Hawke bites his tongue to keep from requesting they speak a language he understands. It is not his place, and not his right, and the kinship developing between the two elves is probably good for them without his interference. Still, he cannot help but feel a sharp stab of jealousy; no matter what he does, he will never be able to reach that part of them.

It bothers him that there are elements of Fenris and Orana that he will never know or understand.

*

Supper has just finished, mother is upstairs in her bath, Bethany retired to bed; the hound is asleep in front of the fire and Hawke is smoking a cigar beside him, worn fingers stroking the dog’s head. In the kitchen, he can hear the sound of dishes being washed, and soft beneath that, the hush of two voices speaking a cathartic mixture of Tevene and the common language.

“Your cat is shedding all over me,” Fenris says, though his tone is kind. “Look at this. Bright orange fur, sticking to my trousers. Permit me to shave her?”

“Begging your pardon, but she would look terrible without hair, messere.”

Orana chuckles, and Hawke looks towards the kitchen at the sound. He does not believe he has ever heard the girl laugh before. Around Fenris, she is more relaxed than even in the company of mother or Bethany. It is the fact that they both, without saying a word, know what the other has been through.

He is not naïve. He knows that at one time, Orana feared Fenris, and saw him as she would have a higher-ranking slave in Tevinter: dangerous competition for the master’s kindness.

But she has slowly begun to understand that neither are slaves in this household. There is no need to be anything more than a pair of freed Tevinter elves, equals in that regard, and probably the only ones in this city to have experienced that brand of tragedy and escaped alive.

“How is Hawke treating you?” Fenris asks.

There is a pause, filled only by the sound of dishes clanking in the basin. “Master is very kind,” Orana says, and Hawke notices that Fenris does not correct her use of the title. To Hawke, the word is grating, and yet she still insists on using it. “He lets me sleep late in the morning, sometimes even past eight bells—I do not dare stay in bed longer. He allows me to take walks in Hightown, and make purchases for myself when I am doing the shopping. Master even allows me to take my meals at the table, like tonight.”

Even despite this glowing admiration for Hawke, there is a note of nervousness to her voice. Hawke recognizes it. It is the same hesitance Fenris uses whenever he is describing his feelings for Hawke, or insisting that he is fine when he is clearly not. It is almost a monologue, not intended for listening ears. She is trying to convince herself that this is reality, and that it will not be taken from her.

“Garrett is a good man,” Fenris says. “He would not bring you to harm. I trust him, or I would not allow him to keep an elf as a servant. But, he can make mistakes. Should he do anything to make you uncomfortable, please do not hesitate to let me know.”

“He has not,” Orana says with some relief. “It is only—I fear that the kindness, the compassion, is some sort of veil, too good to be true. Mistress once told me that people are only kind when they want something from you. I’m sorry; this must sound terrible, and ungrateful.”

Hawke nods slowly, digesting her words.

“I—would be lying if I told you I do not share the same anxieties, sometimes,” Fenris murmurs quietly. Hawke’s heart clenches and he is not sure whether he wants to run towards the room or away from it. “Hawke has been…nothing but good to me, more than I ever could deserve or repay. But still, yes, I am cautious.”

“If I may be so bold, Master Hawke seems to really like you. Sometimes I catch him looking at you out of the corner of my eye.”

“Yes,” Fenris says, somewhat agitated, though his voice does not rise in volume. “The trouble is that even that seems hard to believe. There is…heat there, and want, and those things I understand; but anything else…”

“Do you doubt Master Hawke’s goodwill?” Orana asks, a little shakily. She herself must have her doubts, and she trusts Fenris’ judgment. Hawke thinks that perhaps he has made one too many mistakes. Maybe he has been spending too much time alone with her, and it has left her feeling uncertain and distrustful. He has no doubts Hadriana has abused her in every way possible. 

The lyrium ghost sighs deeply. “There are many dark and terrible things I could tell you,” he says. “I remember, for example, one of Danarius’ many social callings, different in that his mood was genuinely jovial, affectionate even. He touched my hair and allowed me sips of wine, and whispered things to me, soft things but colored by blood now. I feel like a fool, talking about it, but you must understand—of course you understand—how such small things could be mistaken for love.”

Hawke feels sick to his stomach.

“But he did not really love you?” Orana asks. “Even though he treasured you?”

Fenris makes a sarcastic sound. When he speaks again his voice is thick with grief, gravelly and low. “That night, I would have been willing to give everything to him of my own accord. But he twisted my blood with his magic. He waited until I was breathless with how much I supposedly loved him before he used me, violently, again and again, then allowed his honored guests to do the same.”

Hawke throws his cigar in the fire, and it explodes into ash. The hound yelps as stray embers startle him from him sleep.

*

Mother has Orana standing on a stool in front of a floor-length mirror, the elf’s slender arms outstretched to her sides as Leandra takes her measurements. She is mostly quiet as she does so, occasionally humming to herself, smiling, or telling Orana to straighten her shoulders and lift her chin.

“You are far too pretty to be slouching like that,” Leandra says, marking down the width of Orana’s hips. “Maker, such tiny frames these elves have! Garrett, darling, she could probably fit into a child’s garments. We really should feed her more.”

Hawke sits in the corner, trying to sort through his steadily accumulating volume of mail. He does not really approve of his mother infantilizing the girl, but he does not think that it can do much harm in this particular case. Orana is nearly twenty years old, by his estimation—she can only remember the month and the day—but has never had a mother. He is perfectly content in sharing his.

“Now, I’m sure you’re exaggerating,” he says, shuffling the envelopes in his hands. A dusky yellow letter stands out, but he does not yet read it. Attached to the letter is a hefty leather coin purse. Excellent; perhaps he will treat Fenris to some blasted footwear, though he doubts the elf will wear it.

“Not at all, dear,” Leandra responds. She gently brushes at Orana’s skirt, then steps back, examining the girl thoroughly. “Your—friend, what was his name? Fenren? He’s a tiny thing too. I don’t imagine he is in the market for a new wardrobe, though, given that he runs with your crowd.”

Leandra has always made her family’s garments herself, down to their smallclothes, but until they obtained the estate and came into money she could never afford fine fabrics or adornments. Now, the craft is less a necessity and more of a hobby for the noblewoman. She has an eye for fashion, Hawke must admit, and he admires the gowns his mother has made for Bethany: delicate gossamer, crushed velvet robes, high-waisted autumn dresses in bright colors, as is the custom in Orlais.

Come to think of it, Fenris probably does need something to wear besides that armor. It is rather—skimpy, especially when one considers the somewhat cool Kirkwall winter is fast approaching. Still, Fenris would balk at the idea of being dressed up like some kind of doll, even if the elf admittedly is fond of Hawke’s mother.

“Not a good idea, no.”

*

It is very late at night when Hawke stumbles through the door, sweaty and red-faced, his robes damp with blood. He tries to move quietly through the mansion so as not to wake anyone. Then he sees a flash of orange fur dart through the open door to the kitchen, and he curiously follows it. Orana sits at the table with her head on her hand, deeply invested in a children’s book of fairytales as a candle burns low before her.

She has not noticed his entrance.

“Orana,” he says quietly, clearing his throat. “It’s a bit late for you, isn’t it?”

She startles and looks up, but her face slowly relaxes when she sees he is not angry. “I’m so sorry, maste—Messere Hawke. I had just finished cleaning and I decided to try practicing. I lost track of time.”

“It must be quite a story, if it has you so deeply entrenched,” he says with a smile. He comes closer so that he can see the cover. Ah, yes, he remembers this one. Mother used to read it to Carver and Bethany, though this is not the same copy. They lost most of their things fleeing Lothering. “It is what they call a ‘treasury,’ is it not?”

Orana nods. “There are many stories in here. I love them all, but I think I most enjoy the ones from Orlais.” She beams, fingertips stroking the text lovingly. “There is one about a girl who is made a slave by her own family! It was sad, at first, but in the end—I could not believe it—a prince falls in love with her, and finds her with nothing but one of her lost shoes. They marry and she becomes a princess.”

“You have not heard that story before?” Hawke asks, only slightly surprised. He doesn’t imagine such a tale would be welcome among the slavers of Tevinter. “It’s very famous, even in Fereldan.”

Orana shakes her head. “We had stories,” she says softly. She gazes at the candle flame. “Most of them were about young elves who worked hard to please and love their masters, and these slaves were rewarded by the Maker for their loyalty. Would you like to hear one that I—once liked, very much?”

Hawke doesn’t, because he fears that he will not like it, but she seems interested in telling him. So he nods his head and sits at the table across from her. The more he learns about the Imperium the more he wishes other nations gave a damn, or at the very least made a stronger effort at cracking down at slavers within their borders. Too many slaver cells existed even in Fereldan, and the monarchy never bothered to extrapolate them.

Indeed, he knows for a fact that the teryns of Fereldan even make deals with Tevinter magisters.

“Back home, most slaves are forbidden from even touching books,” Orana says. “So our stories became passed down through oral tradition. Late at night, around the fire, one of the older slaves would tell one with the approval of the master. This is one of them. Most of us just call it the ‘tale of the wise crow.’”

She clears her throat.

“In Minrathous, there are large vineyards that stretch as far as one can see, and these are tended by slaves who are strong of body and mind. One of these slaves was called Circe, and he was a prized farmhand belonging to a great and powerful magister. He was as strong as three men, kind and obedient, and his master was always pleased with him.

“One day, however, he was feeling fatigued. He saw a group of slaves with lighter skin, cleaner hair, and more delicate clothing inside of his master’s home, doing their duty by cleaning and cooking and entertaining visitors. Circe bitterly said that he wished he were allowed inside the home of his master, and a wise crow overheard his resentment.

“The crow told him he could grant his wish to rise in station, but that Circe would only regret the outcome. Circe did not care, and bade that the wise and magical crow grant his desire. It was made so. Circe’s master came to him, without explanation, and gave him new clothes, and new duties within the mansion.

“Circe enjoyed his new position, but it did not bring him the satisfaction he wanted. He was not allowed as close to his loving master as he had hoped, and while parties were at first fun, he quickly became bored of them and found the house stifling.

“One evening, he was cleaning up after supper when he saw an elegant and beautiful slave with his master. The slave was dressed in fine silver and silk, had servants of his own to tend to his needs, and was given affection and love by the master often. Circe realized that this was his master’s most loved slave, and he felt the sickness of jealousy creeping in. He bitterly went and told the crow.

“The crow asked him if he would like to once again rise in station, and Circe immediately said yes. His master came to him one night and took him to bed, and although there was pain, Circe was filled with pride and accomplishment. He was given new, luxurious things, a small room near his master’s, and a serving girl to order about. At first, things seemed grand, almost too grand for an elf.

“Then Circe’s master took on an apprentice, a freed slave that had revealed herself as a mage. This was the highest of honors a slave could ever achieve, Circe knew, and he burned with envy. The apprentice was allowed to read, the master paid close attention to her and her studies, and she was even granted the ability to travel throughout the Imperium of her own accord.

“Once again, Circe called upon the crow. The crow asked him: ‘do you truly wish to become an apprentice? You are merely a farmhand, and magic is no plaything.’ Circe disagreed with the crow, and demanded that it make him the magister’s apprentice. And it was done.

“He was now the highest-ranking elf in the household, and the slaves bowed down to him and treated him almost on par with the master. He could now do magic, and reveled in it. The master even taught him to read, and he often scoured the library for books. But the Fade was strong, and the crow had been right—magic was no boon, and it required constant vigilance to avoid losing to demons. He was tired of the master slicing his finger to draw blood for his spells, and he was tired of long and stuffy rituals; he longed to be outside in the fresh air.

“A year into his apprenticeship, he looked down by chance and saw slaves working in the vineyards. He wanted to join them and to have the simple and satisfying task of tending the grape vines. A final time, he called upon the crow.

“He said: ‘you were right about me—I am a mere farmhand. These vineyards are important to the master, and I worked them with diligence and care. Without his lowly farmers, how will the grape vines flourish? How will the master have his wine? I see now that it is sometimes best to want nothing.’

“The crow nodded, and Circe opened his eyes to find that he was shirtless, dirty, and sweaty, calloused hands trimming the grape vines. He smiled at his work, and from that moment on was ever content.”

*

Hawke can’t sleep. It is one of the rare nights that Fenris has stayed over, mostly due to the storms that are currently rattling Kirkwall. He is lying with his back pressed against Hawke’s chest, and Garrett has an arm snug around his waist, holding him close and safe. The elf’s hair is in his face but he does not care. It isn’t what’s bothering him.

Occasionally, Fenris will tense in his arms, muttering in his sleep, though Hawke will always gently squeeze him and it seems to make him relax. Soon, though, as his own insomnia grows, he becomes aware that Fenris is awake. His green eyes have wandered over to the door, and Hawke sees his ears twitch.

“What’s wrong, love?”

Fenris shakes his head and removes himself from the embrace, crawling out of bed. “I heard something.”

“It is probably just the wind.”

“No,” Fenris says cryptically, and Hawke notices he does not grab his broadsword before going to the door. Garrett sighs and decides he should probably follow him, pushing the warm blankets off of his body and cursing as cool air brushes his skin. He wanders after Fenris down the stairs and across the hall towards Orana’s room.

Before he can ask why they’re here, Fenris knocks on the girl’s door.

“Are you alright?” he asks in Tevene. Hawke recognizes these words, at least.

There is a moment of silence, and then the door opens to a tearstained and sleepy-looking Orana, for once not in make-up. She looks remarkably human right now, and Hawke shifts uncomfortably, wondering if he is intruding on a moment too private for him to be concerned with. Still, neither elf seems perturbed that he is here.

“I am so sorry,” Orana sniffs. “Did I wake you?”

“I heard you crying, but it is no matter,” Fenris says gently. “Are you hurt?”

The girl shakes her head and then goes to sit on her bed. Orien is asleep on top of the blankets, curled up in a small ball and unaware that her owner is so distressed. Perhaps it’s for the better that animals do not understand the depth of suffering. The cat would know if something was wrong, but not why.

“I had a dream about papa,” she says, her breath hitching. She tightens her mouth and stares with glassy eyes at the floor. “When mistress killed him, I tried so hard not to scream. She cut his throat and his wrists and his stomach. There was so much blood. She—she twisted him, made him different, and he was crying out in pain and for mercy. He pleaded with mistress to stop, and she wouldn’t…she wouldn’t stop…”

Hawke sees Fenris’ shoulders go rigid, and the elf lowers his eyes, his bright white hair hiding them for a moment. Fenris clenches his fists and goes to sit beside her on the bed, far enough away so that she is comfortable.

“I know you would not want to hear it, but compared to other elves that have fallen victim to blood magic, your father’s demise was swift. By the time he became an abomination, he would no longer be conscious,” Fenris says. “He is not suffering anymore.”

“I know he is with the Maker now,” Orana says. “He was a good slave. A good man. He never complained and he taught me to cook. Mistress was not even going to bring him to the caves, but he knew I would be with her and he wanted to be with me. Why did she kill him? Why did she kill any of them?”

“She was desperate,” Hawke interjects, standing in the doorway. His eyes meet Fenris’ for a brief moment, and he pleads with him not to blame himself for what happened. It is a useless gesture. Fenris will never forgive himself for inadvertently leading to the slaughter of his own. “She was about to die and she did not care about sacrificing innocents. It is her fault, Orana. Not yours or anyone else’s.”

Orana nods soberly at his words, and then hugs a pillow to her chest, bringing her legs up to cross beneath her. She bites her lip.

“Is something wrong?” Fenris asks.

“Even after all this time, and after all the things she did to me, I still love mistress,” she says. A tear slips down her face. Fenris’ jaw clenches in response to her words but even so he nods his head, and Hawke wonders what that means. Surely Fenris does not miss Danarius, as well? After all of the torment he put him through?

“We cannot choose how we feel,” Fenris says. “It simply is what it is. I despised Hadriana, but that is because she did not even feign affection for me. It was different with you?”

Orana picks at the fabric on the pillow. “I thought that she loved me,” she whispers. She is crying again, but softly, tears rolling down her face. “Sometimes she could be so cruel. She would humiliate me, use her magic on me. Sometimes she would beat me and spit on me. But then, other times, she was good to me; she would let me sleep in her bed, and hold me…”

Fenris glares coldly at the wall and brings his knees up to his chest, wrapping his arms around them. “And then she would use you, and even though you knew it was wrong, you did not want it to stop because it was the only time you were treated with anything but disgust.” He narrows his eyes and presses his mouth to his knees. His voice is somewhat muffled. “I know.”

“I was trying to be good.”

Fenris blinks slowly, and Hawke’s heart stops when he sees a small glimmer of wetness clinging to his lashes. “Even if you weren’t, you would not deserve a fraction of what she did to you,” the elf says. “I don’t know if it is—normal, to have this insidious emptiness creep in without them, but Danarius and Hadriana were nothing but terrible and malicious. It gets easier, girl. Soon there will be nothing left but hate.”

“The Maker says we should forgive,” Orana says. “He says that hate and anger are what create all of the evil in the world.”

“Then the Maker should forgive me, for not being able to. I will not ‘forgive’ them for anything they have done. Not for the murder, not for the assault, or the beatings, or that they reveled in their cruelty even as they espoused the word of Andraste herself. The sooner I deliver Danarius to the Maker, the closer I may come to peace.”

*

Garret’s mother dies in his arms.

Her body is a warped, twisted mess. Body parts have been welded to what remains of her with blood magic and crude stitching. Her skin is mottled, dark where other women have been decaying. Blood drips from every orifice: her mouth, nose, eyes, from between her legs, along with semen and rot. Her existence, and the fact that she clung to life for so long, are an abomination before the Maker.

It is Fenris who delivers the final blow to Quentin, his broadsword cleaving the man’s skull in two halves, and Garret resents him for it. It could not be helped—the man was ripping Fenris’ life away with a single powerful spell—but Garret wishes it had been him. He had wanted to feel Quentin’s blood on his hands, his robes, taste it in his mouth.

He is alone in his room when Fenris comes to comfort him in his own quiet, calm way. Small words are exchanged, and Hawke appreciates his honesty: there really aren’t any words that can magically relieve such horrified grief.

“Thank you,” Hawke says, his voice weak from crying.

He looks at the elf, sitting there with his green eyes resting on the fire; Fenris’ hands are clasped in his lap, expression neutral but subtly lined with sadness, and Hawke feels a desperate, longing pang. Dark magic has touched Fenris, too, in much the same way it took Leandra. Danarius mutilated him with lyrium and blood. Danarius warped his spirit with mind control, with abuse. Danarius degraded him violently, repeatedly, because he could.

Hawke takes a shaky breath, and then presses close to the elf, kissing him harder than he needs to. Fenris does not resist, at first; he allows Hawke to touch him, to lay him down against the bed, kisses him back with a fragile tenderness that warns Hawke to go no further than this. Not tonight.

Hawke does not know what’s come over him. He leans over him, their foreheads touching, and tries to regain his senses. “If he ever tries to take you from me, I will kill him.”


End file.
